


Panopticon

by Emanium



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:57:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9424088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emanium/pseuds/Emanium
Summary: Prompt: Keeping the darkest wizard of the age in prison in their headquarters was a very bad idea. When Grindelwald escapes, instead of running, he takes over the headquarters and forces everyone who won't side with him into the cells. To make sure they realize who's in charge, he bends their Director of Magical Security over a desk and makes them watch as he rapes him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Panopticon 圓形監獄](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9671015) by [jls20011425](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jls20011425/pseuds/jls20011425)



They should have seen this coming. He should have seen this coming.

After being captured by the most powerful dark wizard of their age, after spending months with him, contained in his own bedroom, stripped of magic, taunted, tortured- he should have known better. Yet the Aurors had insisted that this was the best place they could keep Grindelwald- in a prison cell like all others. He had nodded, however skeptically, because try as they might there really weren't any sturdier walls for a man like him. Nothing can truly keep his powers contained, keep a man as slippery and as talented as Grindelwald in a cage. So in a regular, only stronger warded cell they kept the mad man, praying that he wouldn't find a crack in their shields.

Graves had given it three days, but Grindelwald had only taken all of twenty-four hours.

Now he pays the price. Grindelwald knows to make them pay, too. They're locked up in the very prison the dark wizard was in, one Auror in each cell. The plan is circular, intended for an Auror to stand guard at the center and see every prisoner on the floor. Now Grindelwald stands in the middle, watching them all, while said Auror's dead body lies not far away, mouth open and blood a dark patch on his chest. Graves wants to throw up.

He doesn't, only because he's convinced himself that he needs to stay strong. The whole of MACUSA still looks to him as a leader, despite all that's happened, despite the months he's let himself be locked up in a bedroom. Goldstein has her bruised hands wrapped around bars, and is still looking to him for instructions. Picquery, standing with her arms at her side, fists clenched tight, still holds his gaze with a fierceness that tells him she's with him, she has faith in him, she trusts him to fight. It's the notion that their lives depend on his next actions, that gives him enough strength to swallow the bile that's building in his throat.

Grindelwald shoves him around, kicks him when he doesn't move, shows him off to his fellow Aurors. He's Grindelwald's grand prize, it seems. Not even Picquery has caught so much of the dark wizard's attention. Even in this state Graves dares not shut his eyes- he knows this may be the last time he sees them, any of them. Aurors he has been working with for years and counting, who have in their line of work cheated death for more times than he can count. However frightened and angry they now look, Graves allows their faces to burn their way into his memory. It's a reminder that'll keep him upright when he's about to bend. It'll keep him fuelled, alive, ready to pounce.

The tour comes to an end. Because of where he stands he's staring at Picquery, who meets his gaze and nods. He doesn't know whether it's supposed to convey comfort or bravery, but it helps him still his breathing.

"I've missed your company, Percival." Grindelwald says, folding his hand over Graves's forearm, squeezing it. "I was speaking with Elliott, my prison guard, just last night. He isn't very good with words, so to relieve him of stuttering I Silenced him. I let him know what a frightfully intelligent individual you are, how much I enjoyed our bedside conversations, and what a shame it is that I'm stuck with an idiot like him that couldn't last three seconds in a duel. I might have let slip a few words of appreciation for your physique, but I think it's perfectly understandable. Elliott, with his feeble little mind, did not, so I did him a favor. I ended his meaningless life, and found entertainment in practising wandless magic with his dead body for the remainder of the night."

Graves thrashes in Grindelwald's grip, as furious as he's frightened. A hand comes to his mouth, firm, suffocating.

"Shush, Director. It's only Elliot." Fingers squeeze around his forearm, clenching his overly thin wrist. Instinctively he wants to run. His body is urging him to run, run and not look back, run and to hell with everyone else. But he can't, not when Elliot's body is at his feet, not when Picquery's eyes are still holding his gaze. Still he's about to hyperventilate. Still he's shaking, not only from anger but from being the most useless coward he's ever known. Still Grindelwald continues. "I wouldn't have done what I did if I didn't know he's one of your favorite subordinates. The boy has been trailing after you since your Ilvermorny days, hasn't he? He holds you in such high regard that I thought even a discussion about you would last the night. But he wouldn't so much as let me say your name, Percival. That's where we had our disagreements, you see, and honest to Merlin, all I did was help us reach a consensus."

"You don't look so well, sweetheart." Grindelwald sneers, his breath warm on Graves's skin. The affectionate squeeze on his wrist fills Graves with dread. "It seems to me freedom hasn't treated you any better than being chained to a bed. Look at you, with your bloodshot eyes and sunken cheeks. You hardly look yourself anymore." He shakes his head, as if he actually cares about Graves's health or how he fared after his captivity. As if he cares at all whether Graves is dead or alive. "You looked much more charming before. When I first saw you at an investigation I knew you were the man I wanted to impersonate. Confident, charismatic, capable- you're easily the best disguise I've happened upon to date. Your face, of course, made it an easy decision."

He's heard enough. Graves turns around and spits at the man. It's one of his rasher decisions- provoking Grindelwald, but he's hardly at his most rational. It also surprises him that Grindelwald doesn't dodge, but he wipes away the spit and looks up. The murderous glint is back in his eyes. Good, Graves thinks. Good.

His revenge doesn't last.

"Crucio!" Graves drops to his knees in excruciating pain. "Getting cheeky, are we?" Grindelwald strikes again, and the pain doubles, curse upon curse. The pressure builds, bending Graves's bones, burning his flesh. The dark ceilings seem to fold in around him, as did the eyes around him. He sees the Aurors- mouth open, shouting, screaming- Silenced. He hears nothing except his own voice that doesn't even sound like his own, hears himself screaming in the distant, too far for it to be coming from him. He seems to be crawling, rolling, rubbing his skin on rubble because the pain is so unbearable. He needs relief from the pressure that keeps building on his body- in his body. He feels like his chest is about to explode. Then the moment he thinks he's going to snap, his body is upright again- held upright, like a puppet on a string. Grindelwald's hand is spread in the air, not above his head but still holding him up. He can't feel his legs.

"I'm thinking of putting on a show. Aurors are terrible learners, as I have come to witness. They need to be taught more times than an infant for a message to sink in. They need to feel in their bones that they have lost, that MACUSA is truly, forever broken, for them to realize that a new era has come. It is time to surrender to a cause that they can never in their limited intellect imagine. A cause so much greater and more powerful than you have together achieved in so long." Grindelwald says, as he paces around the prison floor, giving each Auror a once-over. They are all fierce fighters, fighters that stood their ground even in the face of certain defeat. Goldstein has even caught Grindelwald unawares and pinned him down once. It lasted a full second before the dark wizard was back on his feet.

Grindelwald taps his wand on his palm as he is pacing, snickering at the Silenced curses, the empty threats from their body language, and the dark expressions and glares that make no mark on him. He walks a full circle and is back to staring at the President. "I'm thinking you can lend me a hand in my teachings, Percival. After all, the more familiar the material the easier it is for the brain to understand. It is, more precisely, a demonstration. Come here." He gestures with his hand, and instantly Graves feels a strong pull towards Grindelwald that is physically irresistible. His shoes drag across the rubble, making a screech so sharp it hurts his ears. "Ah, must you be so reluctant, Director? I've treat you better than I did all my enemies."

He's back in Grindelwald's hold. With his back pressed against Grindelwald's chest he can literally feel the beating of the man's heart. It's a snail's crawl. A pumping so quiet and calm that it angers him- angers him how unaffected Grindelwald stays. It makes him want to curse himself for his own thumping heart, for the adrenaline that keeps pumping. He's damn scared and he hates himself for it.

Grindelwald leans back against a desk- Elliott's desk, and cradles Graves's head. He's affectionate in a way that's chilling. "Will you undress for me, love?"

The hand comes to caress his cheek, his neck, and every touch makes him flinch. Not trusting his voice, Graves shakes his head.

"No?" Grindelwald sounds offended. He turns to the young female Auror next to Picquery, points his wand at her. A glint of green appears at the tip of his wand.

Graves's breathing picks up pace. The Auror is young, to him practically a child. Fresh to the fast-paced world of Aurors, even fresher to the world of blood and gore that Grindelwald has so generously painted in New York. He's only seen her a few times, in Junior Auror evaluations. He can't remember whether he's smiled at her the last time he's seen her. He thinks no.

"I remember you, my sweet, you fetched me coffee once. You blushed when I complimented your hair, didn't you?" Grindelwald's fingers come to comb through Graves's hair, cleaning out the dust and dirt that's trapped between the strands. "It would be a shame if I were to kill you. You make such good coffee."

Grindelwald turns to whisper at Graves's ear. "She was very sweet to me, Percival. I think she had a crush on you. I don't blame her, you are a beautiful man." He raises his hand, deliberately making the action slow. "Such a shame that you've sentenced her to such ill fate."

"I'll do it." Graves interjects quietly.

It's so stupid, he thinks. Deep down he already knows Grindelwald will threaten him with the lives of his colleagues. He already knows that at that he will surrender. Yet his reflex is still to say no to the man's every command, to resist until the green light inevitably gloats at the tip of his wand. It's ridiculous. What is his subconscious waiting for? Help that they obviously aren't going to get? A feeble denial of reality, so he can provoke Grindelwald to a point where he'd just kill everyone on sight? He's so stupid.

Graves looks up, sees the dread in the Auror's eyes, sees the fear, the pity. He keeps his eyes on her. "Don't harm them." He says to Grindelwald, soft enough for only the man to hear. "Please." He watches in relief as Grindelwald lowers his wand. The man gestures for him to get on with what he's promised.

So slowly Graves shrugs out of his overcoat. He allows the heavy fabric to fall to the ground, mourns the weight that's gone. The cold outside air finds its way through the pores of his vest and shirt to his skin, and the only source of warmth around him now is Grindelwald. He lets the man kick away his layer of protection, now no more than a dark puddle at his feet, dirtied by blood.

Grindelwald takes his scarf off of him. Sniffs it, to his disgust, as if savoring his scent, before dropping it to the ground. Then his calloused hand is back on Graves's neck, caressing. Warm breath tickles him, makes his skin crawl. Grindelwald presses his chin against his collarbone. All Graves can register is the instinct to flee.

"As much as I appreciate the show, you would save more lives if you picked up the pace."

Graves opens his eyes again. The Auror is still staring at him. Picquery, on the other hand, has her eyes tightly shut, as if she's in pain. He unbuttons his vest, lets Grindelwald pull it off of him. Undoes his suspenders, lets them snap and fall against his trousers. Grindelwald's arms wrap around him to unbutton his dress shirt. "You've lost a lot of weight since we first met, Director. A job like yours requires physical strength. I can't say you've been setting a good enough example for your underlings."

"I wonder whose fault is that," Graves snaps, his voice raw. He did lose a lot of muscle during his captivity, despite all his training when Grindelwald was away. It just wasn't enough. Grindelwald starved him, enjoyed making him weak. His stomach hasn't yet recovered enough to pick up weight, and now he's back at the mercy of his captor.

Amused, Grindelwald chuckles and pulls the shirt off Graves. His fingertips dance across exposed skin, fleeting touches that spell a nightmare to come. Graves shuts his eyes and feels a finger brush across his nipple, feels it acutely and begs it to go away. It's gone for a split second, then it's back- it's a touch no longer, it's turned into a full-on tweak, teasing, pinching, and twisting. He struggles, discomfort building as his nipples grow raw and erect. It continues. He doesn't know what Grindelwald gets out of it but the torture doesn't end, until he's breathing hard, with the back of his head pressed against Grindelwald's shoulder. He's panting, both from the physical stimulation and from his own humiliation- realizing that dozens of pairs of eyes are watching him like audience at a carnival.

Grindelwald's hands are at his waist, slowly unbuckling his belt. He pulls the leather off with a yank. The sharp movement makes Graves flinch. He withdraws quickly, but a hand catches his own in the air. "Proceed, Director. We haven't got all day."

"Strip me and get it over with, will you?" Graves hisses back. He catches his hand shaking, and mortification hits him as he sees the betrayal of his own body. He tries to stop the shaking but he can't, and neither can he stop the cold sweat from accumulating on his palms. He feels weak, weaker still than when he was in chains. He almost wishes he's back in his bedroom, back when he wasn't rescued, when the only thing he had to lose was himself. Not the lives of his family, friends, or colleagues. Not his dignity, since he had so little of that left, and not losing it to public humiliation. But now the remaining lives of MACUSA depends on him, and that responsibility adds so much weight to the equation.

"No." Grindelwald snickers. "Because then I'd be doing you a favor. Go on, lose the trousers."

Graves kicks away his shoes, pulls his socks off, lets them drown in puddles of dirt, blood, whatever else is down there with his shattered pride. His trousers join his overcoat as he unzips and wriggles them off. All this while he keeps his eyes on the young Auror's face, searching for the horror, the dread. It keeps him grounded, keeps him doing what's necessary. He swallows the bile and continues, until all he's wearing is his boxers. A hand comes to grip him through the cloth and he almost jumps at the intrusion.

"It's a pity that you're unaroused, Director. You'll enjoy this much more if you are."

Graves tells himself that it's no surprise when the hand pulls open his waistband and digs inside. It's no surprise, and yet when the hand wraps around his soft cock he shuts his eyes and makes a conscious effort to suppress the sound in his throat. The hand starts pumping him, starts off slow but builds a rhythm, and Grindelwald's warmth is acute and all around him. When Graves next hears himself he's mortified, for his traitor of a throat makes out a fucking whimper. He hangs his head low and tries desperately to pretend they're alone in an empty chamber.

Grindelwald teases him for a while longer, though every second passes like a minute and every minute an hour. Graves breathes through his mouth and tries to ignore Grindelwald's scent. The man is practically draped all over him, one hand at his crotch and the other holding him still across his chest. He tries to distract his mind- tries to think about anything but the hand pumping his cock. He nearly succeeds, but in his overstimulated state all that comes to mind is the irony, the absurdity of it all. Bitterly he finds it funny that the lead of a prison breakout is better dressed than he is. That the thing rubbing against his bare back is the expensive fabric of the suit that Grindelwald has conjured. That the coat smells like him, finest cologne and all, that that is a scent that his body recognizes. That his body has learned through long months of isolation that this is a scent that is more attractive than unpleasant. His thoughts fade, and Grindelwald's chuckle is loud to his ears. He doesn't need to look to know he's hard.

"That's it, love." Graves jerks when the fingers reach to tease the tip. Grindelwald reaches up again, and his fingers are coated by precum. The man licks the slick off his fingers and hums. "You should taste yourself, darling." He murmurs, voice low and husky. "Allow me."

It's not even the dark wizard's hand that presses Graves to Grindelwald. It's the force of wandless magic, violent and uncaring, that pushes him against the man, strips him of air, makes him feel like he's back in a bodily fight. All he's aware of is lips glued to his own, teeth clashing, tongue finding its way into his mouth. If he had half a second longer to react he would have bit sharply into that intruding tongue, but again he was stupid. So with all his might he pulls away, limbs thrashing, but for all his effort Grindelwald doesn't budge. Graves tastes the unmistakeable on his own tongue, a taste that's salty and sweet and bitter altogether. They part, him panting and Grindelwald smirking.

The mad man drags Graves up without another word, holding him upright. Graves supposes it's for his viewers to see their mess of a Director. He sees crying faces, helpless faces, some angry and most in fear- fear for what's coming for them, and for him. He ends up facing Picquery again, which is just as well, because she's still the most composed among those that he's close to. Whereas Goldstein he supposes is crying, but he doesn't allow himself to look towards her.

He's bent across Elliott's desk. Grindelwald unzips himself and rubs his cock against his ass. It's hard, from what Graves can feel on his skin. It's also dripping precum, and Grindelwald is spreading the wetness along his crack. Fingers come to poke at his entrance. Graves shuts his eyes in face of the inevitable, but the next thing he knows Grindelwald is gripping his hair and making him face forward. His chin hits the desk and his teeth go numb from impact. "Keep your eyes open. Blink, and I'll kill them."

So Graves keeps his eyes open, because even when Grindelwald is drunk on his ego and horny like an animal in heat, the man doesn't make empty threats. With his posture there's no other direction he can face, so he keeps his eyes on Picquery. He senses that the President is tempted to shut her eyes, but Grindelwald gives a clear warning. "Do pay attention, Madam President. Surely you'd like your subordinates back in one piece, especially this beautiful specimen that I have writhing under me?"

Graves shudders when Picquery meets his gaze again. He hates to admit that the pity in her eyes stirred something within him- perhaps it resonated, perhaps he feels the same frustration and dread. Whatever it is the emotion in her eyes keeps drawing him back to reality. He's so close to forcing himself to be indifferent in the affair, to look at the assault through the eyes of an outsider. But no- her gaze keeps reminding him that the very person Grindelwald's filthy hands are on is himself. Suddenly the wetness that has only prickled at his eyes gathers into big fat tears. They roll down his cheeks in quick succession, and he couldn't do a thing- not even blink- to stop them.

"Oh, Percival dear. It's alright." Grindelwald leans forward and presses light kisses to his back. He coos, in a voice disgustingly affectionate. "You're alright with me, sweetheart. Everything's going to turn out fine. Just lean forward and relax. Enjoy the show in its making."

But things are going faster than he can cope. The assault comes sharp and painful. Grindelwald's fingers are shoved into him, two at once, rough, coated in nothing but precum. Graves jerks forward, pushing himself against the desk in pain. His tears have stopped, but his mouth hangs open, and the first sound that comes out again is a groan. A groan of pain that he chokes away as quickly as it formed.

Picquery isn't as far as he remembers a moment ago. She's standing very close to the bars, her fists so tight her knuckles are white.

"You're so unbelievably tight, Director. It leads me to think you've never been taken this way- and oh, I do feel honored introducing you to another realm of pleasure. Things like this just need a bit of practice."

The fingers scissor in him, spread his inner walls, force him open at a strength that pains him. Graves can't tell if he's bleeding, whether the liquid that's gushing out of his hole is his blood. He doesn't know, can't tell, hasn't ever experienced pain this way for it to be comparable. Still it feels incredibly intimate to be touched this way, and that alone makes him wish that he's subject to the Cruciatus again.

"I'm not so keen on torturing you anymore, not the traditional way, at least." Grindelwald says, and Graves knows his mind is being read. But with his ass being spread by another man's fingers, he really can't find the strength to maintain his shields any longer. "I find that pleasuring you is much more enjoyable, and you're much less trained in this field than you are the other. I love how conflicted your mind is. It's screaming a cluster of messages that even I find difficult to decipher. Doesn't it ever get tired of screaming? Shouldn't you at least be moaning? Or begging, perhaps?"

"Stop." He says the first word that comes to mind, and to his shame it sounds weak.

"You have to mean it, Director. I can't give you what you want if you keep lying to me."

The arousal that hit him- sudden and squarely- is unnatural. He knows as much. It's a spell that Grindelwald cast on him, but just because it's a spell doesn't mean it's resistible. His erection comes so quick he gasps, and nearly bites his tongue when Grindelwald's fingers shove into him again. "Stop, please. Stop."

"I hear what you say but your body is begging the opposite. You're hard, and so incredibly wet, so alluringly tight. I don't believe you, Director, I think you want to be fucked."

"Kill me, please." He's weeping as he pleads, he thinks. Through his blurry vision he sees Picquery with her hand on her mouth. She's trembling, or maybe he is, because everything he sees is shaky. Or maybe it's shaky from all the movement at his back. His vision isn't sharp anymore so he can't tell.

The fingers retreat, and his hole is left tender, gaping wide. "Be a sweetheart," Grindelwald says, his voice sweet. "Beg me to fuck you. Beg, or watch your beloved President fall to eternal slumber. Beg me to pump your tight wet hole with my cock, fill you up with my seed, beg."

Picquery is saying something, but it doesn't reach Graves because of the shield. He doesn't need to hear her to know what she's saying. At least with his blurry vision he doesn't actually see her face, or catch any trace of emotion in her eyes. So Graves pulls away from reality, tries to imagine that the body that's laid across the desk isn't his. "Fuck me," he makes out, tasting blood on his tongue. He's finally bit through.

"Don't be shy, darling. Say my name. Make it romantic."

Through his tears he's staring at Picquery, at Goldstein. At the Auror who once perhaps held some respect and admiration for him, but certainly has none for him now. He stares some more until he relents, until he decides even fighting is too tiring an effort. "Fuck me, Grindelwald," he says, and the shame is overwhelming.

He cries out when Grindelwald thrusts into him, all semblance of pride gone when the pain rips through him. Even in his muddled, half-conscious state he knows it's far from over. It's only the beginning. Grindelwald sets a pace that's fast and rough. His hand is always pressed against the small of Graves's back, with a strength that's bruising and crushing him. He's still treating Graves like a toy, a possession that's being used.

"Ask for more," Grindelwald demands, and all Graves knows to do is to shake his head. He can't imagine taking any more of this madness, let alone actively seek it. But he chokes back tears and reminds himself that more lives are at stake. More valuable lives that he's been trying to protect.

"Harder," Graves says. The warning grip on his hipbone doesn't loosen. "Go faster. I need it rough."

The pace grows, harder and rougher like he's asked. The worst feeling is the heat pooling at his lower abdomen, that makes him moan wantonly and rock his hips back against his better judgment. He succumbs to the urge eventually, not once, not twice, but every time Grindelwald's hips hit his own with a smack. He rocks back into it, high on arousal, his cock hard enough to burst and all traces of rationality gone from his head. If Grindelwald has chuckled, he hasn't heard it, because all he's hearing is the man's heavy, ragged breathing against his ear.

At some point he's pulled upright again, leaning back into a warm embrace. Someone's mumbling his name into his ear. He sinks into warmth, shuts his eyes for long enough so his other senses become all the more acute. Another spontaneous roll of hips, and Graves comes undone. Thick white cum spurts from his cock onto his chest, as he rides Grindelwald through his climax.

The next second he's thrown back to reality. He snaps his eyes open, and dread washes over him faster than pain from the Cruciatus. He doesn't have time to process the shame, because Grindelwald's arms suddenly tighten around him. He's being filled from the inside, hyperaware of every spurt of semen that's gushing around his hole and out. His breathing is shallow even when Grindelwald's spent cock slips out of his hole. All he manages to do is fall to the floor, naked and used, onto his own puddle of clothes.

Grindelwald tucks himself back in and sniggers. "I should have done this a long time ago, Percival. Look at their faces. It breaks their heart to see you like this." He gestures around, but Graves refuses to see. Whichever direction Grindelwald forces him to face, he watches the walls, the bars. Everything else turns blurry and out of focus, including faces, especially faces. It calms him to think his humiliation is his own to watch and bear. Grindelwald, spent as he is, doesn't seem to mind as much. "Come with me, love. It's much more fitting to have you in my bedroom than in a filthy cell."

The Imperius curse is a blessing when it comes. Graves's legs function on their own, dragging him out of prison. He can still feel the Aurors' eyes on him, but aside from that the shame has vanished with the Unforgivable. He presses his own naked body to Grindelwald and lets the man cradle his head. For the disturbing scene it must be, it's a blessing that he can't feel the unease.

"Say goodbye for now, Director. You'll be seeing them tomorrow- those that behave, at least." Grindelwald holds him close and readies him for Apparition. "Who knows, Percival, for the days to come you may learn to put on a better show."


End file.
